Kaleb squeezed the cloud again, disbelieving what he’d heard. “How can you be Yasha?”

  She leaned back on her hands. “Is that hard to believe?”

  “Forgive me, but you were a man three days ago.”

  The woman claiming to be Yasha smirked. “And now I’m a woman. Need I remind you that you’re also sitting on a cloud? There are more things than you’ve dreamt of, Toraphite.”

  He allowed that asking questions was pointless, for everything was passing strange these days. Not only was he sitting on a cloud, but last night he’d fought a Gilgamite. And to top it off, the chieftain had branded him a murderer.

  Yasha buried her arm in the cloud and withdrew a wineskin. “What’s your name?”

  “Kaleb.”

  “Just Kaleb?”

  “—ben Zohar.”

  She took a long swig. “You weren’t a mere onlooker in that mob. Why did you wish to kill Sachareb?”

  “He spoke ill of my father. That’s reason enough.”

  “Your father can’t defend himself?”

  “Not unless he returns.”

  Kaleb’s teeth chattered. It was cold up here, and if the cloud floated any higher there’d be nothing left to breathe. He leaned over the edge, watching hills and cliffs flash by below. Being so high up made him feel like a giant, as if he could crush mountains underfoot.

  He glanced up, and the sky glittered back at him. He was no stargazer, never had been, but being so close to the stars did something to him. He couldn’t help tracing lines in his mind’s eye, and constellations took shape: the Leopard, the Hanged Man, the Elephant.

  “Kaleb,” Jaspeth said. “Let me see Yasha.”

  Kaleb lifted his hand.

  Yasha widened her eyes at Jaspeth. “My, were you really born like this?”

  “Sadly,” Kaleb said, pulling back.

  “Ask her for that wine,” Jaspeth said. “Then I’d like to suck her teats.”

  Kaleb punched his foul brother. “Quiet.”

  Mud-brick buildings studded the land below, most outfitted with sheepfolds and granaries. Kaleb knew this quarter, for it belonged to the Kergalonians. In the center stood Prince Entunki’s ziggurat. Five stories, a jumble of ramps and steps and terraces. Kaleb himself had laid some of its bricks. Though, it was said to be a shadow of the masterworks in Kergalon.

  Instead of wine, Yasha offered a waterskin.

  “Thanks,” Kaleb said, taking a gulp. “Why are we here?”

  “What do you think of the Kergalonians?”

  “I can do without them. But if the Most High is good, we’ll be rid of them one day.”

  “You lot haven’t changed,” she sneered, “still waiting to be saved.”

  He returned the waterskin. “No wonder the chieftain didn’t welcome you. No respect for the Most High.”

  “Do you know how many gods there are?”

  “Doubtless more than I can count. But of all of them, the Most High was the one who chose us.”

  She smirked. “Those men accused you of murder. What really happened?”

  Kaleb shook his head. “I couldn’t leave well enough alone, and now everyone thinks I killed that boy’s parents.”

  “What boy?”

  “Some scamp from the brickyards. He threw a stone at me, so I chased him, cornered him. That’s where I found his parents, both already dead. Then that thing crawled up from his throat. It had a friend, too. I may be a killer, but not of my own kind.”

  Yasha fingered her staff. “I thought the one was a fluke.”

  Her tone unnerved Kaleb. “What do you know about Gilgamites?”

  “Other than them being thorns in my side? Precious little. They’ve always plagued your people. Because of them, Azavel’s children will never know peace.”

  He nodded. “They’re with Apharoth?”

  She stood on her knees. “You know Apharoth?”

  “Last I saw, he was carving up the Tabernacle.”

  Yasha peered southward. “I should help His Holiness.”

  “Don’t bother. He wouldn’t lift a finger for you.”

  She sank back onto the cloud. “He already did, many years ago. After I was born, my mother placed me in a basket and sent me adrift on the Zirash. Your chieftain pulled me from the river and raised me in his household. Because of that, I was spared the hard labor so many in your tribe suffer. Not such a sour old goat back then, was he?”

  “Lucky you. Thank him when you get the chance, if Apharoth hasn’t already gutted him.”

  Jaspeth willed himself open, his red-rimmed eyes settling on Yasha. “Who is Apharoth, anyway? I know I’ve heard that name.”

  “A mercenary,” she said. “He leads an army called the Scarlet Scorpions.”

  “I take it he’s your enemy.”

  She drank the last drop from her wineskin, then pushed the stopper in. “Indeed.”

  “You’re the reason Apharoth’s here, then. The blood of Kaleb’s friends is on your hands.”

  “Jaspeth’s right,” Kaleb said. “Keep your quarrels out of Toramesh.”

  Yasha eased onto her back, folding her arms under her head. “I’ve overstayed my welcome, haven’t I?”

  He nodded. “It’d be best if you left.”

  “What about you, Kaleb? What do you want?”

  “Bring me to my mother.”

  “Unwise. If word has spread, she’s already in the chieftain’s clutches.”

  He balled his fist. “Save her, then. It’s only right. You got Ateb and Omeb killed.”

  “What if your tribesmen stand in my way?”

  “Mow them down, like you did those soldiers.”

  “Kill them?”

  “If not you, I’ll do it.”

  Eyes downcast, Yasha sighed and patted the cloud. “You heard him.”

  Sheeba wheeled southward, and the night air cut through Kaleb’s robe. For a while, the only sound was the rippling wind.

  Yasha closed her eyes, tapping the cloud with her sandaled foot. “At least tell me your mother’s name.”

  “Shelem,” Kaleb said.

  “She must have a lot of patience, being your mother.”

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  The stale, dusty stench of the camp whirled up into Kaleb’s nostrils. After tonight he’d never smell it again. He didn’t know where he’d go, but that was the least of his worries. Maybe the Kergalonians would be forced to help the chieftain against Apharoth. That way, Kaleb could steal away unnoticed. He wouldn’t get past the Kergalonians otherwise. Not counting the rest of Toramesh, his camp was usually garrisoned by six hundred soldiers.

  He turned to Yasha. “You’ve been everywhere, right?”

  “More or less,” she said.

  “My father left Toramesh after my seventh nativity day. Ever met a man named Zohar?”

  “I would’ve remembered. It’s not often you find a Toraphite outside Toramesh.”

  Kaleb lifted his head toward the moon. “Someone out there has seen him, knows where he is.”

  Sheeba glided down and landed between the pickets of an old sheepfold. A leafless acacia stood nearby, vultures squatting on its branches. Its roots showed through the dirt like bones through skin. Kaleb grabbed his spear and climbed down from the cloud.

  “Come,” he told Yasha, shouldering the spear. “My mother’s not far.”

  Something blocked his next stride—an unseen force, howling in tireless breaths, stopping him from planting his foot. A gale slammed into him. His back struck the acacia’s trunk, and the vultures flapped away. He gasped, dropped his spear, crashed to the dirt.

  Yasha stood before him, smirking.

  “I told you not to trust her,” Jaspeth said.

  Yasha slid her staff under Kaleb’s chin and lifted his head. “I was once like you. I prayed to the Most High, I obeyed His Holiness.”

  He clenched his chest. “We’ve no time for this.”

  “You speak of time? Maybe if you’d used your time more wisely, you wouldn’t still be here. I imagine that’s why your father left. He no longer wanted to be a slave. Do you know why I left Toramesh?”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “It was ten years ago, that night. After tending the chieftain’s sheep, I was heading back to the Northern District. The alleys were empty, silent. I never reached my hut. In my path stood a Gilgamite. I’ll never forget its eyes, like a snake’s. It chased me till I couldn’t breathe. I thought my life was forfeit, but then, as if sent by heaven, someone appeared. A soldier who’d once fought against the Twelve Lost Tribes. Together we killed the Gilgamite.”

  Kaleb reclaimed his spear. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “That night, I left Toramesh. I needed answers. Who are the Gilgamites? Why do they torment Azavel’s children? Why does the Most High let you suffer?”

  “You’re not of our blood,” Kaleb said. “Azavel’s none of your concern.”

  Yasha chewed her lip. “Oh, but it is. Your tribe raised me as one of its own, and now that debt must be repaid. You’ve many enemies, not just Gilgamites and Kergalonians. But I have a plan, Kaleb, to rebuild Azavel.”

  Kaleb shook his head. “I’ve heard enough about Azavel. Why should I believe anything you say?”

  “By rights you shouldn’t. It won’t matter what you believe when Apharoth finds you.”

  He leveled his spear. “Let him try.”

  Yasha grinned, almost laughed.

  “Do spears amuse you?”

  “You do.” Yasha slid her hand through her hair. “Do you remember why I’m here?”

  He slowed his stride, edging around her. “To leech off my tribe?”

  Kaleb wanted no part in this. When faced with a silver-tongued demon, cover your ears and turn away. Without a grain of sense, you’d follow heathens and false prophets. Yasha was both, making her more dangerous than anyone else in Toramesh. Worse, she might not let him escape. Her powers were great, but he could take this spear and—

  “Kaleb,” she said. “Become my disciple.”

  He stopped.

  “I’m here to separate the wheat from the chaff. Won’t you join me?”

  Kaleb redoubled his grip, his hands slick with sweat. “I have other duties.”

  “You’re a slave, Kaleb.”

  “And you’ll free me? Forget it.”

  “I’ll help you find your father.”

  Those words were sweeter than wild honey, sweeter than syrup dripping from dates. Kaleb had to steady himself. “You will?”

  “If need be, we’ll cross the Great Sea a thousand times over. All I ask is that you join me. Without disciples at my side, I can’t rebuild Azavel.”

  Kaleb thought a moment, but no longer. “Thanks, but I can’t leave my mother.”

  Yasha’s brows loosened. A pitiful groan escaped her. “You know what happens when you return.”

  “Like you said, I’m innocent.”

  She lowered her staff, letting him pass. “Will they know that?”

  “Good luck finding your disciple, but I’m not him.”

  He strode into the murk, leaving Yasha by her lonesome. Again, heathens and false prophets. He needn’t trust a word she said. Lies spun from her deceiver’s loom, that’s all. Though he wanted more than anything to see his father, nothing was promised. Kaleb could waste years searching in vain. With his mother, though, there was a clearer path, a way to help her.

  He marched onward, spear in hand, hopefully not to his damnation.

  He was three blocks from his tent when spearmen stormed out of the alleys and encircled him. He counted their number. Twenty. No, twenty-five. Always go with the higher count.

  They didn’t lunge at him, didn’t so much as step closer. Did they fear Yasha’s presence? Kaleb could use that to his advantage.

  “Stand down,” a voice croaked.

  The guards lowered their spears, but Kaleb only tightened his grip.

  The chieftain emerged, his scalp bathed in blue moonlight. He motioned with his staff. “Let us speak in confidence, Kaleb ben Zohar.”

  Kaleb set his jaw. “Is this a trap?”

  “Look at our number. Why resort to trickery?”

  “Keep your men away.”

  They relocated to a nearby tent, its canvas walls shielding them from the night wind. Kaleb settled before the hearth, overwhelmed by the sweet, smoky scent of burning acacia. The chieftain was slow to lower his staff.

  Kaleb rested his spear across his lap. “Where’s my mother?”

  “In her tent, sleeping peacefully. We have not disturbed her.”

  “Where’s Apharoth?”

  “By the Most High’s grace, he retreated. Do you know what happened afterward? The boy whose parents were slain—Leyed ben Azeb—awoke. We questioned him straightaway.”

  “Couldn’t have remembered much.”

  “He spoke of you, Kaleb ben Zohar. How you chased him until his feet ached, how you kicked the wind out of him. Do you know what else he told us? That you were not the one who killed his parents.”

  Kaleb unhanded his spear. Is my life, after all, not forfeit?

  “I was not prepared to hear that,” the chieftain continued. “I had already judged you guilty, but the boy implicated Apharoth. That one is a demon. You were lucky to have escaped him.”

  Kaleb huffed. What did it matter that Apharoth was gone? Yasha still loomed over Toramesh.

  The chieftain blew on the fire, fanning its flames. “Where did Yasha take you?”

  “Not far.”

  “Stay away from that familiar of whores and lepers. Yasha has no place in Toramesh.”

  “You’re to blame for Yasha.”

  His mouth twisted. “Whatever you were told was peppered with lies. I may have pulled that babe from the river, but never was I able to tame it. In time, Yasha grew too unruly. Those powers became a threat to us all.”

  Kaleb stood. “I’m leaving.”

  The chieftain hobbled after him. “Wait, boy. What does Yasha want here?”

  Kaleb stopped. “Didn’t you hear? A disciple.”

  “Whatever happens tomorrow, leave Yasha to me. Do not cause a stir in the brickyards.”

  “I won’t be in the brickyards.”

  The chieftain stamped his staff. “What do you mean? Are you joining hands with Yasha after all?”

  “Yasha has nothing to do with this. I’m a mason now. If you want to see me, you’ll have to visit the quarries.”

  At daybreak, Kaleb led his mother into the market. Each of them bore a sack heavy with bedrolls and what garments they owned. The clamor of merchants peddling wares clashed with the bleating of goats, but Kaleb let the noise fade into the background. In his mind he heard the clink of chisels, the strain of ropes, the scrape of sleds. Soon his hands would crack from the dry air, and his flesh would be coated in dust.

  Dukalag, the master-builder, stood outside the same lean-to as yesterday, his fingers twisting the ringlets of his beard. He was flanked by bronze-clad spearmen. “Five recruits, eh? More than yesterday.”

  Kaleb glanced at the others who’d enlisted. Three were his age, but the fourth might’ve been thirty years his elder, his beard streaked with gray. If Dukalag had been telling the truth, most of them wouldn’t live to see another moon.

  Like Kaleb, their families—or what remained of them—lingered behind, watching. Whether child or adult, they were all dirt-smeared and weathered, wrapped in rags of wool and sackcloth. Their eyes were wide with hope, though, or maybe barely disguised dread.

  “Heed this warning, Toraphites,” Dukalag said. “The quarries are no place for the weak. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. None of us want to be here, but we obey the King of Kergalon. He speaks for the gods, and who are we to question the gods? Follow my troops to the wagons. Pack your things and get moving. We’ve a long trek ahead of us.”

  At the same time, a snort echoed, followed by footfalls. Perfume swept through the market, overpowering everything else. The crowd parted as a column of white donkeys ambled by, their bridles glittering with gold beads and lapis flakes. Kergalonian soldiers sat astride the beasts of burden, clad in gleaming bronze scale.

  Then came a white camel, trotting with easy grace, bearing Prince Entunki. The fool was so covered in rings, pendants, and bangles that onlookers had to squint against the blinding flash of his riches.

  He twisted in his saddle, curling his lip at the master-builder. “Where’re you taking this rabble?”

  “To the quarries, Your Radiance,” Dukalag said.

  The prince inspected the Toraphites. Kaleb wanted to turn away, but that’d only draw Entunki’s attention, and the last thing he needed was another quarrel with this preening fool.

  “This lot won’t make it in the quarries,” the prince sneered. “They’re weak. Not like us Kergalonians, right, master-builder?”

  “Yes, Your Radiance.”

  Entunki’s laughter filled the air. He flicked his fingers, as if dismissing everyone and everything that didn’t concern him. “They’re better off rotting in the brickyards.”

  “I’m only doing as your father bade me.” Dukalag’s voice remained steady. “He demanded more watchtowers on the outskirts. Brigands grow more unruly by the day, especially the Scarlet Scorpions.”

  “It’s always about father’s wants, but what about mine? Aren’t I precious to Kergalon?”

  “We serve at your pleasure, Your Radiance. If you wish, we’ve received another crate of dates from Azdaya.”

  The prince crinkled his nose. “I’m sick of those.” He snapped his reins, making the camel trot a few paces, but then he stopped. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing at Kaleb. “Wait, I know you.”

  Kaleb slapped his brow and sighed.

  “You’re from the brickyards! You stood up for that old fool, tomorrow’s sacrifice.”

  Dukalag shot Kaleb a wary glance, then turned to the prince. “You know this boy, Your Radiance?”

  Pointing at Kaleb with a gold-ringed finger, Entunki said, “I don’t want this one in the quarries, master-builder. Let me have him. He’d make a fine manservant.”